US Embassy

This is Trump’s regimeA neocolonialist bureau in aPost-colonial cityThe grey building with its well-manicured grassHas its guards stand tall withCartoon moustaches that areAnything but funny

They make you feel so smallFirst they spit orders into your face toEmpty yourself bareYou feel like a child whoAte her homeworkAnd stumbled into the headmistress’ office with a bad stomachache

Then they make you stand in silenceEven as you try to make conversation with theEqually nervous person behind you who’sGoing to visit their daughter for the first time in 3 years or theHopeful student who just got into this university in Iowa orThat one in Arkansas

“Sir how old were you when you left Tehran”“My parents are sponsoring me”“Husband is in Philippines, ma’am”“Virtual key accounts manager”“Housewife”“Sir it’s a one number question can you just answer me straight”“Until I was eighteen ma’am”

AccentsInterrogated by some voice on TV with no soulAnd we were not allowed to look, our kneesTrembling like we were waiting in line at theSite of an executionAfter all capital punishment is still a thing inFree America

“NYU?”“History major”“Your visa is approved ma’am”Such ease in my privilege I thought I moved worlds andTried to keep my relief in check because there were still manyBefore me and after

All these words rehearsed in nervous minds and robotic onesThe white people at the counters had nuclear missiles to blow our hopes dryAnd turn our hearts into a giantWasteland that was onceAn American dream

I wanted to punch Uncle Sam and screamI hate AmericaOr burn down a McDonald’s whileShowing my middle finger to TrumpBut I kept silent with my head downAnd as I walked out I saw a woman in a burqaAnd I have never been aware ofPrivilege as such